The guards finish their inspection of the room, telling him what we already knew: there’s nothing out of place, our clothes saying the same damn thing.
He surveys us. “We all know this isn’t done.”
I don’t react, and I’m sure he’s getting the same level of emotion from those behind me.
“None of you will be without assigned eyes tonight. I’m watching. I look forward to seeing what you think you can get away with, as laughing at your failure will be my payment for letting your little friends join us.” He motions to the guards. “Give them their clothes. Then figure out your assignments.”
Four guards stay after we’re dressed, the one I thwacked with kitty litter sharing a meaningful look with Trips.
I don’t worry about that. Instead, I just hope we’ve been distracting enough for RJ to do his part. Otherwise everything we’ve worked for will be for nothing.
Chapter 58
RJ
Ithought the cold would be the worst part of winter diving.
It turns out it’s the dark.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark. It has always felt a bit like a blanket to me, especially late at night, with only the light from my monitors casting shadows as I track information like a nighttime predator.
But this darkness is different.
It has weight and sound and weeds that snatch at my ankles, threatening to pull me deeper into the icy water. My headlamp does little to change the eeriness, the ping of my GPS a constant surprise as I propel myself farther from safety.
I’d placed a pin where we cut through the ice by the park. There’s more than enough air for us to return and break out of the slowly reforming barrier. But the darkness whisperslies; the circle from Jansen’s headlight barely reaches my chest.
I distract myself with memories of learning to dive off the coast of La Pieta, schools of colorful fish flitting through brilliant blue waters and the easy-to-deal-with wetsuit so different from this gloom and balloon situation.
There was freedom under those waves. Trading an updated scuba website for lessons for Jansen, Walker, and me was one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made.
I won’t ever dive on a winter night again, though. This is closer to exploring a tomb than the freedom I felt amongst those ocean waves.
My GPS chimes again, the pin of our destination close enough that I dim my headlamp, the distance I can see ahead of me now barely farther than my reach. Jansen swims closer to my side, the darkness nearly swallowing him. We swim closer yet, and I flick the light off entirely, the dark devouring everything except the faint light of my digital map, and the glow of the moon through the ice. Then, we’re there.
Pulling out a giant ring screw, Jansen and I take turns painstakingly anchoring us to the ice so we won’t drift from where I need to come out. The gentle slope to the shore keeps snagging my flippers, not helping, only increasing the uncomfortable sensation of being dragged to the depths below.
Once we have a handhold, I take out the battery-operated auger meant for fishing and start cutting a hole in the ice. The device does the best it can, but it wasn’t meant to make human-sized holes, let alone from below. So it takes forever, Jansen and I switching spots when we need a rest from theawkward position. But finally, we make a hole large enough for me to squeeze my head through.
I double-check that we’re in the right place, the hole we’re making hidden by the shadows beside the boathouse. Trips picked a good spot. Then we keep working, the wind biting every time my skin leaves the water.
Eventually, we have a hole large enough that I won’t snag anything or damage my suit, and I haul myself from the hole like a seal, wiggling free as the wind steals my breath, having spit out my mouthpiece at the first opportunity. Fuck. Step one complete.
I sit perched on the ice, listening for the alarm, for anyone alerting security that I’ve snuck in. Instead, I hear the faint murmur of music from the house, accompanied by the clack of tree branches above as the wind grows stronger.
Safe enough, I pull off my flippers and shove my feet into the water shoes I had strapped on my belt. Ice forms against my toes as I sink into the snow, handing Jansen my flippers, the headlamp, my regulator and tanks, the auger, and the GPS. He throws me a thumbs up once he’s shoved all my gear into a bag, then he sinks back under the water.
I know he thinks I’ve got the dangerous job tonight. But his is worse.
There’s a reason you aren’t supposed to dive alone, and it’s a damn good one. If there’s a problem, nobody is around to help you. If there’s a problem, you’re as good as dead.
Our instructor Roque would have both of our heads right now.
I mumble one of my rare prayers to whoever might be listening, then peer at the mansion. It’s time for the next step.
I dart from tree to tree up the gentle hill toward the house. I’d verified Trips’ assumptions about camera placements before we left, not risking tapping into the security any sooner than today for fear of being found out and putting Clara and Trips in further danger. It was what I’d expected—they covered the boundaries but left the middle of the estate bare. And with the wind, I’m less worried about my footprints than I was when we concocted this ridiculous plan.
Finding my way to the rose garden, I duck behind a tree and strip out of my drysuit, pulling my dress shoes out of the dry bag and shoving my icy toes into them. Then, I straighten the lapels of my unusually heavy suit jacket, plop the fake glasses onto my face, and smooth a hand over my newly shorn head. Thin black leather gloves provide little protection from the cold but keep me from mourning my short hair.
